Men
by Sabine101
Summary: "God give us men." [J/S, sequel to "Women"]


TITLE: Men  
AUTHOR: Sabine  
ARCHIVE: Anywhere, drop a line: sabine101@juno.com  
CATEGORY: J/S  
RATING: PG  
SPOILERS: Again, general through now, nods to ITSOTG   
and "Noel," and also "The Stackhouse Filibuster."  
SUMMARY: "God give us men. The time demands /   
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and willing hands."  
DISCLAIMER: Whitford, Lowe. And Sorkin. Made these   
guys, not me. Whitford and Sorkin, the best men.  
NOTE: This is the second part of a triptych that started   
with "Women" and will continue in a third installment.   
This story should be able to stand on its own merits, but   
should you want to read "Women," it's up at   
http://people.we.mediaone.net/sabine101/ourboys.htm   
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Punk took the heavy stuff and   
drove the car. Also for Jae and Anna, who saw it coming.   
For august. And then again, for Dawn.   
  
  
  
MEN  
  
  
  
He's been having dreams, and they're about Sam.   
  
His shrink thinks this means he's ready for more therapy,   
but his shrink also thinks he plays all the supporting   
characters in Josh's dreams, and Josh suspects that really   
isn't the case. Still, he considers coming in twice a week.  
  
"We've got about --" Stanley checks his watch. "Ten more   
minutes, so we should figure out what we're gonna do   
about next week."  
  
"We're -- what?"   
  
"You said you had a commitment."  
  
Josh rubs his forehead. "Oh. Yeah. I have a thing, but I was   
just hoping we could push -- push back like an hour?"  
  
Stanley shakes his head. "Unfortunately, I won't be able to   
fit you in next Wednesday at all," he says. "How's Friday?"  
  
Friday seems worlds away. "Uh, Friday's fine. Noon?"  
  
"I can do noon."  
  
They sit in awkward silence. Josh uncrosses his legs, leans   
forward, leans back again.   
  
"So we've decided you're not comfortable being with   
anyone who you feel is beneath you," Stan pulls a   
conclusion out of thin air. Josh squirms.  
  
"I don't think women are beneath me," Josh says. "I've just   
been --" He wants Stanley to cut him off, but shrinks don't   
do that. Stanley doesn't do it either; he sits and waits. "I   
love women," Josh says.  
  
Stanley nods. "I believe you," he says. "I also believe you'd   
have a very hard time opening up to anyone who didn't   
have his finger on the red button."  
  
"We don't really have a red button," Josh says. "And even if   
we did, I wouldn't have my finger on it. I'm just -- I'm a   
politician. I offer a political perspective on issues."  
  
"You make sure the President stays President," Stanley   
chuckles.  
  
"Pretty much," Josh says. "I make sure he gets done the   
stuff he needs to get done."  
  
"What about the stuff you need to get done?" Stanley asks.   
"It must be hard, trying to live out someone else's agenda --  
"  
  
"We've talked about this --" Josh waves a hand. "It's my   
job, Stanley. It's what I get paid for."  
  
"This is what I get paid for," Stan grins. "So tell me. We've   
got a few minutes. It's hard. You were shot for this job, in   
the line of duty. This job nearly killed you. And you spend   
your days carrying out the President's agenda. Don't you   
ever resent him for that?"  
  
Stanley's trying to piss him off, and Josh knows it. "I don't -  
- you don't resent the President of the United States," Josh   
says. "I believe in this administration."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Yes," Josh says, a little too loudly. "Of course I do!"  
  
"You don't even know if you like women, Josh," Stanley   
says. "How do you know how you feel about a   
congressional lobby?"  
  
Josh sighs. "It's hard to explain," he says, and it sounds   
stupid, even to him.  
  
And then it's time to go.  
  
"Look, Josh," Stanley says, getting up to switch off the   
white-noise generator and open the door. "I think there are   
things going on with you that I can't help you with -- at   
least, not if you don't clue me in better about what your life   
is really like. But these guys, these men, these friends of   
yours -- Sam, and Leo, and Toby -- they're tuned in to you   
in a way I can't be. And these aren't people you think are   
beneath you, right?   
  
Josh shrugs.   
  
"Use that," Stanley says.  
  
Josh nods. "Yeah," he says. "I will."   
  
Donna is in his office when he gets back.  
  
"I'm a backseat dog, Josh," she says.  
  
"Wha-?"  
  
"Wind in my fur, bugs in my teeth, tongue hanging out --   
I'm a backseat dog."  
  
"Yeah," he says, worming past her and sitting down at his   
desk. "Well, I have no idea what that means, so --"  
  
She sits down.  
  
"No, no," he says. "Don't sit down. Go away. Go   
somewhere else, away."  
  
"The White House is a Winnebago on a road trip to, like,   
South Dakota --" she starts.  
  
"South Dakota?"  
  
"Well, whatever," she waves a hand. "I was just thinking,   
you know, with all the big presidents?"  
  
"You mean Mt. Rushmore?"  
  
"I've been thinking about this a lot, Josh," she says. "You're   
all in a Winnebago to Mount Rushmore, and I'm, like,   
hanging out the window with kids driving past making   
faces at me. I'm a backseat dog."  
  
"You're not a backseat dog, Donna," Josh says.  
  
She stands up again. "I am," she whines. "I want to do   
more. You should let me do more."  
  
"Absolutely," Josh says. "Tell you what. I've got this   
meeting with the Domestic Policy Council, but I'd really   
rather figure out why my car is making this strange hissing   
sound. So you take the meeting, I'll go to the auto shop, and   
when you come back, we'll start working on your   
presidential campaign."  
  
She snorts. "Josh! I'm serious."  
  
"I know," he says, more gently, suddenly wanting her out   
of the room. "You're not a backseat dog, Donna. You're   
very important to us. To me. You're definitely at least a   
front seat dog. Like, like a golden retriever or something."  
  
"Hmpf," she says, finding two blue folders in a pile of other   
blue folders. "You have staff today, don't forget."  
  
He had forgotten. With Leo out of town, he's running the   
staff meeting today and tomorrow, and he hasn't prepared.   
He hasn't even thought about it. "What's on the slate?" he   
asks.  
  
"You haven't prepared? Josh!"  
  
"No, I've -- I've prepared. I just want to look over --" He   
sighs. "Talk to the assistants. I want to know every   
meeting, every piece of paper. And call Margaret. No, don't   
call Margaret. Just get me the slate."  
  
She smiles with one side of her mouth, tipping her head to   
the side. "I suppose I'm indispensable, now," she says. "I'm   
not looking so much like the backseat dog anymore."  
  
"Right," he says. "Get me the thing, Donna."  
  
She leaves with a little nod, like a salute. He thinks she's   
mocking him.  
  
He's done this once before, run the staff meeting, but it was   
early in their freshman year and he'd bumbled and they'd   
laughed about it. He's not going to bumble today, and he   
thinks that might make things worse.   
  
"It's not finished."  
  
Sam is working on Bartlet's speech for the Early Career   
Awards for Scientists and Engineers, and halfway through   
the meeting Josh makes the mistake of asking about it.  
  
"It's not finished. And when it is, Toby will look it over.   
I'm fine, Josh." Sam sounds insulted.  
  
"Yeah," Josh says. "I'm sure it's great. Pretend I didn't ask."  
  
His office is too small for this meeting, Sam and CJ and   
Toby crowded around the doorway with nowhere to sit.   
Josh stands facing them, and they look a little like a firing   
squad, a tall, well-dressed firing squad waiting for him to   
finish that cigarette so they can strap the blindfold on. He   
thinks they can sense his mediocrity, they can smell it on   
him like predators.   
  
He brought them here. He wonders when it happened that   
they surpassed him. He thinks he may have been in the   
hospital at the time, reading theoretical physics and feeling   
the universe expand around him.  
  
He clears his throat. "And Toby, you've got --"  
  
"I'm gonna go talk to Hoynes this afternoon," Toby says.   
"There's some stuff coming out of his office on the oil thing   
and I want to make sure it gets here."  
  
Josh isn't sure that's a good idea, and he's suddenly aware   
of the fact that Toby makes more money than he does. If   
Leo had been here, Josh would have spoken up. "You sure   
you wanna do that?" he'd have said. He feels his eyebrows   
raising, he's making the face he would have made.  
  
He wishes Leo were here. Leo's been down in this hole   
before, he knows the way out. And on top of all that, when   
Leo's here, Josh doesn't have to take the reins. And his   
hands are numb and he can't feel the reins, today, and he   
wonders where this horse is going.  
  
"Don't worry about it, Josh," Toby says. "We'll steer it   
right."  
  
"No, that wasn't --" Josh begins, and then stops. "Let me   
know as soon as you get back," he says. "CJ?"  
  
"Light day," CJ says. "I'm getting some questions on 677   
and that Women's Outreach thing, but I think we're   
covered."  
  
"You're telling them schedule conflict?" Josh looks at her.  
  
She smiles. "Figured that one out all by myself, there,   
Joshua." He's embarrassed.  
  
"Good," he says. "What else?"  
  
"Do you -- how's Duquesne?" Toby asks.  
  
"I'm working on 677 all day," Josh says. "I'll have some   
stuff for CJ when I get back from meeting with him on the   
hill. I have to go into the Oval this afternoon and --" he   
stops. There's no reason to tell them this. "I'm good," he   
says. "You guys can go."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Lyman," Toby says, clearing his throat.   
"Class dismissed."  
  
"I'll tell you where we're at after the 4:00," CJ says, holding   
open the door so Toby can leave past her.  
  
"Good," Josh says.  
  
"I was talking to Toby," CJ says. Josh sighs. "Make sure   
you fill me in when you get back from the hill, Josh."  
  
"Yeah," he croaks, sitting down.   
  
Sam's still there. "You okay?"  
  
Josh rubs his eyes. "I -- I haven't really been sleeping so   
much," he says.  
  
"Well, you don't look like you've been sleeping at all," Sam   
says.  
  
Josh thinks about the dreams. "Not well, anyway," he says.   
"Whatever. I gotta do this thing, so --"  
  
"You did well," Sam says. "Just now. You did fine. In case   
you were worried."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says. "And Leo's back day after tomorrow."  
  
"Good luck on the hill," Sam says. "Don't let Duquesne get   
you talking about gays in the Boy Scouts again. That's, like,   
his pet political black hole."  
  
"I know," Josh says. "I'm not gonna let him fuck around.   
He knows it, too. This is a courtesy call."  
  
"Good," Sam says. "Good." It looks like he wants to say   
more, but instead he turns to leave. Josh doesn't want him   
to go.  
  
"Sam?"  
  
There's this moment in a recent dream where Sam's in a car   
that doesn't have a passenger's seat. Josh is on a street   
corner, he's on his way somewhere or he's just come from   
somewhere, and he needs to get in the car. Something about   
eggs, or snakes, something about the apocalypse -- it's   
fuzzy in his brain now. But the part that he remembers is   
the part where he's standing on the street corner in the dark,   
and Sam just drives on by.   
  
"Yeah, Josh?" Sam is standing in the doorway, one hand on   
the jamb. His shirt's pulling out of his belt a little where his   
pager's clipped, and Josh almost wants to come over and   
brush him off, tuck him in.   
  
"Nah, never mind," Josh says. "I gotta go do this thing.   
You'll tell me -- nah. No, no, never mind."  
  
"If you really want to read the PECASE speech, you can,"   
Sam says. Josh shakes his head. "Okay," Sam says, and   
leaves.  
  
677 is not going to pass, ever, and Josh is proud of himself,   
for the first time in weeks. It was an easy victory, but it was   
his, and for an hour he thinks he might not be a hack. He   
comes back to the West Wing and there's a phone message   
for him.   
  
"Lauren called," Donna says. Josh doesn't know who   
Lauren is. "Here."  
  
She hands him the pink carbon message, and he looks at it,   
trying to see if the number looks familiar. It doesn't.  
  
"Yep," he says to Donna, picking up the phone and   
punching in the numbers. Donna stands there and watches   
him. "Uh, yeah," he says to the phone when a receptionist   
answers. "Lauren, please. This is Josh Lyman."  
  
"Silverman?" the receptionist asks, and the word is   
meaningless to Josh. "Lauren Silverman?"  
  
"I guess," Josh says.   
  
"Joshua Lyman!" a woman's voice picks up, and he   
remembers. Lauren Silverman. He'd dated her in law   
school. She was skinny and scary and wore a lot of black,   
and she had rhinestones in her glasses. He remembers that   
she gave great head. He cups a hand over the mouthpiece of   
the phone.  
  
"Scram, Donna," he says, and she does.  
  
"Lauren," he says. "Hey. Long time."  
  
"I'm in town," she says. "I was thinking about you."  
  
Josh sinks into his desk chair. "Yeah?"  
  
"What have you been up to?" she asks, and he thinks it's a   
stupid question.  
  
"Well, I was shot in the chest," he says. "So there's that."  
  
"Yeah," she says. "I saw that on TV. I was gonna call."  
  
"You did call. You're calling right now." He has no idea   
what she wants from him, what she could possibly want,   
and he doesn't particularly care.  
  
"How you feeling?" she asks.  
  
"Ah, look, Lauren?" He leans back in his chair and closes   
his eyes. "I've got this incredibly busy day over here --"  
  
"I just wanted to say --" she coughs, several times. "Sorry. I   
just wanted to say I've been thinking about you ever since   
you guys won --"  
  
"Two years ago."  
  
"I'm really proud of you guys. I think President Bartlet is   
terrific. And I just -- I always knew you'd do great things,   
Josh. I think -- I mean, everybody knew that. And now you   
are. So that's great."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says, rubbing his face with a hand. "Okay.   
Thanks."  
  
"Anyway, I'm in town," she says. "Just for three days. I was   
hoping we could have drinks, I could buy you a drink. I'd   
like to buy you a drink, Josh."  
  
"Mmm," he says, stalling. "Maybe. I'm really, I'm really   
busy over here, Lauren."  
  
He's remembering her better now. He's remembering why   
he broke up with her, and why they got back together four   
times even after he'd left school. It was ten years ago, but   
he wonders how he had forgotten at all.   
  
"Man," she says. "I've got this case now with these union   
reps -- it would have been right up your alley -- you'd leave   
me in the dust. I'm glad I talked you out of practicing law."  
  
"You didn't talk me out of it," Josh laughs weakly. "I was   
always gonna go into politics. You just wanted me to open   
a practice with you and I said no and then you pretended to   
agree with me."  
  
"I spent far too much time telling you how brilliant you   
were, is what it was," Lauren laughs back. "It went to your   
head."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says. "That must be it." He remembers all the   
times she talked him back from the brink. He thinks she's   
singularly responsible for his ego, and he wonders where   
that ego's gone. Just talking to her now embarrasses him,   
makes him feel nostalgic and old and inadequate. He's not   
that guy anymore.  
  
Someone's knocking on his office door.   
  
"Come in," he calls. And then says, "look, Lauren, I gotta   
go. I'll -- I'll call you back."  
  
"Sure," she says, and it doesn't sound like she believes him.   
He hangs up. Sam walks in, holding his speech.  
  
"How'd it go with Duquesne?"  
  
"I put the fear of god in him," Josh says. "They're gonna   
stick it in a drawer for nine months and by then we'll have   
passed 901 and 911 and there won't be any money. He   
knows it, too."  
  
"Who was that on the phone?" Sam sits down.  
  
"Eh -- old girlfriend," Josh says. "She's in town, she wants   
to -- whatever." He doesn't want to be telling Sam this.   
  
"So you're --" Sam sits down. "You're dating again, then."  
  
Josh shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "But I've been so   
busy."  
  
"You should -- good," Sam says. "That's good. That's very   
good."  
  
Josh doesn't know if it's good that he's not dating, or if it's   
good that that he's suggesting that he would be dating if he   
weren't so busy, though that last part's a lie and he's pretty   
sure Sam knows it.   
  
"Yeah," Josh says. "Hey, Sam?"  
  
Sam looks around, though he's the only other person in the   
room. "Me?"  
  
"Yeah," Josh laughs. "Eh, nothing."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"What are we -- what are we doing here?"  
  
Sam checks his watch. "Well," he says. "It's ten of five, the   
President comes in at seven and you've got to brief him on   
Duquesne, I'm still working on the --"  
  
Josh shakes his head. "No, no," he says. "I mean, what are   
we doing -- what are we doing here for the -- for the   
country? Do we even know anymore?"  
  
Sam looks at him blankly. Josh stands up.  
  
"677 wants to set aside money for religious groups, right?   
Church and State says no, Duquesne tells me a story about   
a kid from South Philly whose minister got him out of a   
gang and helped him start a, a, what's-it-called, an after-  
school group, and they're, like, painting murals on 2nd   
street and I'm telling him no way that bill's gonna pass."   
Josh rakes his hands through his hair. "What the hell is   
going on, Sam?"  
  
"Duquesne didn't mention that half the money goes to   
photocopying hymnals," Sam said. "He didn't mention that   
Timmy in South Philly is a Methodist, and he goes to   
school with a kid named James who's a Baptist and who's   
still hanging out on 2nd street, but he's not painting   
murals."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says, sitting down.   
  
"Duquesne didn't mention Jacob Cohen or Josh Lyman   
either," Sam says, more gently. "677 is not going to pass.   
There are better ways to do it, Josh."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says again. He's tired. He watches Sam, and   
Sam's eyes are glinting, and in the yellow of the office   
fluorescents, he's beautiful. Josh feels his stomach knot.  
  
"Let me read you something," Sam says, flipping open his   
speech and scanning down a couple of paragraphs. He   
clears his throat. "In the second century, Claudius Ptolemy   
looked up at the heavens and wanted to understand them.   
Gone were the thoughts of a century before, when Pliny the   
Elder said that to inquire what was beyond the reaches of   
our knowledge was 'no concern of man,' that the 'human   
mind' dare not 'form any conjecture concerning it.' No,   
Ptolemy said, I don't accept that -- and with pen and paper   
he went to work to explain Mars' apparent leaps in the sky.   
This was the time of geocentrism, remember, back when   
we were the center of the universe --" Sam looked up at   
Josh. "Here he breaks for a laugh."  
  
Josh nods. He's almost afraid to move.  
  
"Anyway," Sam says, looking at his speech. "With his   
model of Mars' epicycles, Ptolemy was able to account for   
the motions of heavenly bodies within the standards of   
observational accuracy of his day. And we believed him.   
And we rested easy, for twelve hundred years, comfortable   
in the fact that we knew all there was to know about the   
motion of the stars. Until Nicolai Copernicus, in the   
sixteenth century, showed up with his telescope and said   
'hey, wait a minute. We're not the center of the universe   
after all!'"  
  
The speech takes a beat. Sam takes a beat. Josh holds his   
breath.  
  
"The world only spins forward," Sam reads on. "At least,   
now, we're fairly confident it does. Um, another break for a   
--"  
  
"Keep going," Josh says.  
  
"The world only spins forward," Sam reads. "I'm here to   
present you, young scholars and poets, with the 2001   
Presidential Early Career Awards for Scientists and   
Engineers. Because of your passion and dedication,   
America will remain at the forefront of scientific capability.   
We will not rest on our accomplishments, nor will we   
believe, as so many have before us in centuries past, that   
there is nothing left to learn. Today, in this room, looking   
out at all of you, I see answers to questions we have not yet   
even begun to ask. I see theories, and ideas, models and   
infrastructure. I see cures for disease. And with this --"  
  
"Sam," Josh cuts him off. Sam puts down the speech.   
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"You write -- you write the President in the first person."  
  
Sam nods. "Of course I do," he says.  
  
Josh stands up on wobbly legs, comes around the desk to   
where Sam is sitting. He leans on the edge of the desk and   
looks down at Sam. "I guess that makes sense, I guess, I   
just never thought about it before. I never -- I never heard it   
in your voice before."  
  
"Actually, it's interesting," Sam begins. "When I first   
started, I mean. It was a little weird. But I'm better able to   
get into his head now. And it's easy, things like this."  
  
"Because you believe it," Josh says.  
  
Sam nods. "Yes," he says.  
  
"That's why we're here," Josh says. "This is why -- oh, god,   
Sam." Josh is shaking, he buries his face in his hands.   
  
He wants this man, this beautiful man who writes POTUS   
in first person and believes it. This man who has his finger   
on the red button, who carries out an agenda, who cares.   
  
It was never women. It was never supposed to be. It was   
always Sam.  
  
Sam stands up, rests his hands on Josh's shoulders. "It's   
okay, Josh," he says.   
  
"I didn't -- I didn't get it," Josh says. "I worked here, I've   
been working here two years and I didn't get it, not until   
just now."  
  
"We've got sixty kids," Sam says, very close to Josh's ear.   
"Sixty kids who are about to start their careers in science   
and engineering. Sixty kids who are going to change the   
world. That's what we're here for, Josh. Not Duquesne, not   
religious splinter groups that want to tell you things their   
way. But kids who say 'I don't know what all the answers   
are' and want to figure it out."  
  
Josh leans forward, stands up, wraps his arms around Sam.   
"Thank you," he murmurs to Sam's collarbone.  
  
Sam hugs him back. "Sure," Sam says.   
  
"This is why I never called those girls back," Josh says.   
"I've been -- ever since the thing --" he means the shooting,   
and Sam knows, and Josh knows he knows. "Ever since the   
thing it's been very weird. I need...something else in my   
life. I need to get it. I need someone who --" Josh peels   
away, and Sam's looking at him.  
  
"Yeah?" Sam asks, with wide eyes.  
  
Josh lets Sam's shoulders go. "This is very weird," he says.  
  
"No," Sam says, quietly, seriously. "It's not that weird.   
There aren't that many people in the world like us, Josh.   
And we found each other. It's an amazing thing."  
  
"Bartlet did it," Josh says. "Bartlet brought us all together."  
  
Sam shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "You did it."  
  
Josh feels seasick. "No, I --"  
  
Sam touches him on the chest, gently. "You got us here,   
Josh. You brought me here, you got all of us here."  
  
"Leo --"  
  
"Not Leo, Josh," Sam says. "You. You saw it. You left   
Hoynes, because you knew. You made it happen."  
  
"I'm just a politician," Josh says.  
  
"You're a scholar and a poet," Sam says. "We're gonna   
change the world."  
  
Josh takes a breath.  
  
He's been having dreams, and they're about Sam. And in   
them, sometimes Sam kisses him.  
  
This time, he kisses Sam first.  
  
It's exploratory, quick, a buss on the cheek, and then Josh   
laughs, embarrassed, and leans his forehead into Sam's   
shoulder. "Yeah," he says.  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "Josh?"  
  
"I can't do that again," Josh says. He's not sure if he's   
referring to the kiss, or something else.  
  
"Okay," Sam says. He looks at Josh for a long minute. "Can   
I?"  
  
And this time Sam kisses him, and it's not at all like the   
dreams, where Sam's quiet and faceless and blue-eyed and   
beautiful. Here it's weird, and clumsy, and real. And Josh is   
kissing the man who writes the President in the first person,   
and believes it.   
  
It's not like the women, and it's not like the dreams, where   
he wakes up alone.   
  
He's scared. He pushes Sam away. He swipes at his face   
with both hands. "What does this -- ?"  
  
Sam smiles, picking up his speech. "It means you're not   
alone, Josh," he says. "You never were."  
  
"That's a great speech, Sam," Josh says. "I'll come -- I'll   
come to the thing. I want to hear him read it."  
  
"Kick some ass in the Oval tonight," Sam says. "Let me   
know how it goes."  
  
Josh looks at the floor. "Are you -- " He stops. "My shrink   
says I need to talk some more," he says. "Are you -- ?"  
  
Sam smiles. "Find me after the meeting," Sam says. "I'll   
buy you a beer."  
  
Josh nods. "Uh-kay," he squeaks.  
  
"Kick some ass," Sam says again, heading for the door.   
"Duquesne's wrong. You're right. It's an easy sell."  
  
"Yeah," Josh says, and a breeze from somewhere cuts   
across his chest where Sam's not there anymore. "I know."  
  
"It's like the speech," Sam says, stopping in the doorway   
and turning around. "It's easy when you believe what you're   
doing."  
  
"Thanks, o wise one," Josh says with a snicker, but really   
he means it. "I pretty much know that. Now."  
  
"I know," Sam says. "Find me when you're done."  
  
And with that he turns and leaves the office.  
  
Josh sinks back against the desk and rubs his forehead with   
the back of his hand. Outside, someone's hollering for CJ,   
and he figures the 5:00 briefing must be over, and he   
wonders how it's gotten so late. He has a position paper to   
finish, he has calls to make, he has work to do.  
  
"Donna!" he hollers, and he sits down.  
  
***  
  
"God give us men. The time demands  
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and willing hands;   
Men whom the lust of office does not kill;   
Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;   
Men who possess opinions and a will;   
Men who have honor; men who will not lie;   
Men who can stand before a demagogue   
And dam his treacherous flatteries without winking;   
Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog   
In public duty and in private thinking."  
-- Josiah Gilbert Holland (1819-1881) 


End file.
